Subject: "Bad Dreams" (Rated PG)

From: [email-masked] (MelTaylor)
Date: 31 Aug 1994 23:24:06 -0400

Okey-dokey, here's my contribution to the alt.tv.x-files.creative group. 
This is not so much a story as it is an imagined scene/sketch that
occurred to me while I was trying to break a bad case of writer's block. 
(Picture a grown woman sobbing hysterically and beating her head against
the wall---that's me! ;-D)  The 
standard disclaimers apply; e.g., the characters are property of Ten
Thirteen Productions/Fox, and no infringement of copyright is intended,
blah, blah, blah...This is fan fiction, folks, written by a fan, for other
fans, so don't sue me.  I'm broke anyway. 
 
This story is "rated" PG for a few mild adult words.  This story does NOT
contain full-frontal nudity, sex, smoochin', romance, or anything remotely
offensive, so don't get your knickers in a twist.  ;-).   E-mail me if you
have constructive criticism, suggestions, advice, whatever---but please,
no flames.  I'm in a cranky phase right now, thanks to far too many
football pre-emptions, and I might snap 
and snarl and bite you on the ankle if you provoke me. ;-D 

					Bad Dreams 
					by Melissa Taylor 

	The worst thing about it, of course, was that she was alone. 
Scully sat in the middle of her bed and listened to the cool stillness of
her empty apartment.  Her heart pounded in her ears.  Just a nightmare,
she told herself, nothing new.  She had them every now and then---who
wouldn't---but this one had been bad, more like a fever-dream, a queasy
mix of capering images.  She wondered how much more time would pass before
she would stop seeing Eugene Tooms in her bad dreams, slithering out of
her heating vent, or when Luther Boggs' face would fade from her memory. 
She finally reached for her bedside lamp, clicked it on.  Cheery light
banished some of the shadows from her bedroom---some, not 
all.  She shoved one hand through her tangled hair and reached for the
book she'd been reading before her eyelids had grown too heavy.  Maybe
this *wasn't* such a good time to re-read The Silence of the Lambs. She
put the book back down, arranged the covers around her legs.  The clock by
her bed ticked quietly over from 11:50 to 11:51.   She stared longingly at
the mute phone by her bed, then jerked her gaze away. 
	Stop it, Dana, she thought firmly.  It was just a bad dream,
nothing more.  Get up and go watch tv.  Fix a cup of tea.  Go find
something else to read.  Do something, but don't just sit here.  She
looked at the phone again, then at the clock.  11:55.  There was a good
chance he'd still be up. 
	No.  She wouldn't do it.  Hadn't she spent enough time today
around Fox Mulder?  They'd spent the better part of the twelve hours
slogging through the pouring rain, trying to get leads on a kidnapping
case that was going nowhere fast.  Frustration had made them both
irritable; twice, she'd had to walk 
away from Mulder to keep from kicking him in the shins or doing something
equally immature but satisfying. He could be so damned pigheaded!   
	Then *why*, for heaven's sake, did she want to call him right now?
 Why did she want to hear his voice, hear him say something dry and
Mulder-like?  Shouldn't she be sick to death of him by now?  She puffed
out her breath in a sigh and started to wiggle back under the covers.  She
wouldn't call.  Absolutely not.  She reached out, clicked off the lamp,
and watched darkness claim her bedroom once again.   
	Crap.  It was so quiet---*too* quiet.  Scully turned onto her side
and stared at the clock.  Watched the numbers change from 11:56 to 11:57. 
Ridiculous.  She reached for the lamp again, then picked up the phone. 
She'd let it ring twice; if he didn't answer, she'd hang up.  That way,
she wouldn't 
wake him---if he *was* home.  She hadn't thought about that; he could have
gone on a date...or something.   Why did her stomach just do a slow and
uneasy flip?   Bad tacos, she thought.  Maybe I should get up and get some
Maalox.  Instead, she pushed the speed-dial button.  Why did she feel
absurdly guilty about having his number programmed on the first button?  
	"Hello?"  His voice startled her; he'd answered on the first ring.

	"Mulder," she said, still struggling with her surprise. "It's
Scully," she added unnecessarily. 
	"Hey, Scully.  What's up?"  He didn't sound at all sleepy.   
	"Um.  Are you busy?" she asked.  Now why in the hell did her voice
crack like that?   
	"Uh-uh."  She heard the tv volume go down a notch. "Scully, are
you ok?  What's going on?"	 
	"I'm fine.  Just fine."  Scully stared at the ceiling and wished
it would cave in and save her from this mortification.  "I
just...uh...can't sleep."  Oh, hellfire and damnation.  She sounded like
an idiot.   
	"Wait, isn't that supposed to be my line?" he asked, and she
relaxed a little, hearing the wry smile in his voice.  "Only one insomniac
per team, remember?" 
	"Sorry.  I forgot."   
	"Tell me what's going on, Scully," he said, his tone sliding into
the teasing wheedle he used when he was trying to get her to listen to one
of his far-fetched theories. 
	Scully sighed.  He'd pester her endlessly if she didn't tell him. 
"I had a bad dream," she confessed.  "Stupid, I know, I'm too damn old to
get the willies from bad dreams, but I did, and now I can't sleep, and..."
she trailed off with a little laugh. "...And now I'm calling you so you
won't be able to sleep either.  Misery loves company and all that." 
	He was silent for a moment.  "What did you dream about?" 
	Scully paused.  "Tooms.  Boggs.  A lot of stuff, all mixed up." 
She sat up, pummeled her pillow into a more comfortable shape.  "Trot out
your psych background, Mulder, and tell me what's wrong." 
	"There's nothing wrong.  You're just under stress, that's all. 
This case isn't helping." 
	"Aigh, the case.  Don't talk about the case." 
	"Okay."   
	More silence, but it was a companionable quiet.  She didn't mind
it.  He was the only man she knew who didn't mind the silences that
sometimes spun out between two people.  She could hear the even cadence of
his breathing over the muted chatter and hum of his TV..  "What are you
watching?" she finally asked. 
	"The Thing." 
	"John Carpenter version?" 
	"Yeah." 
	"Mulder, how many times have you seen this movie?" 
	He snorted.  "How many times have you seen Lethal Weapon?" 
	Scully pursed her lips.  Busted.  "Okay, okay," she grumbled. 
That's what she got for letting slip that she owned the damn movie on
laserdisc; Mulder, of course, had immediately teased her into confessing
her guilty-pleasure crush on Mel Gibson.   She heard a burst of static,
then the clatter of metal in the background.  "What was that?" she asked. 
	"Kettle.  I'm making tea.  You should make some too, Scully.  It
might help you sleep." 
	Scully sat up, pushed the covers away.  "That's not a bad idea,"
she commented.  "When did you get a cordless phone, Mulder?"  She walked
into her kitchen, flicking on all the lights as she went.  Go away,
darkness.	 
	"Hmm, last month, I think.  Weren't you with me when I got it?"   
	"Must have been some other redhead," she said lightly. 
	"Nahhh," he replied.  "You're the only redhead I know." 
	Now *why* did that make her feel better?  Scully put the water on,
hauled down her favorite mug.   "This reminds me of that movie," she told
him, digging in her tea cannister in search of chamomile tea.   
	"What movie?" Mulder interrupted.	 
	"Give me a minute."  She blew a stray strand of hair out of her
eyes.  "Oh, hell, you know the one I mean."  She fished out a teabag and
stared at it.  "The one with Meg Ryan and what's-his-face." 
	"That really narrows the field, Scully.  Meg Ryan has made how
many movies now?" 
	"Oh, stop."  She swung the teabag by its string.  "When Harry Met
Sally.  Remember?  They would both watch the same tv show together
and...Oh, never mind; bad analogy." 
	"No, I understand."   And she knew he did; that was the thing
about Mulder.  He understood her, even when she had her rare moments of
complete incoherence.  She heard the dim whistle of his tea kettle, the
sound of spoon against mug.  "Want to watch something together?  The Thing
is on HBO," he 
added helpfully. 
	"Ick."   
	"Hmm, you're right; it wouldn't help you sleep.  Is your tea
ready?" 
	"Almost."   
	"Tell me what you're wearing," he said in a passable imitation of
a phone-sex operator.   
	Scully snorted and looked down at her long cotton t-shirt and
socks.  "Mul-der," she admonished. 
	"Okay, okay, *don't* tell me."  A slight pause.  "Don't you want
to know what I'm wearing?" 
	"This conversation has taken a turn for the *weird*," she informed
him, pouring hot water into her mug.   
	"Kill-joy.   Isn't your tea ready yet?" 
	"Yes, yes."  Scully carried her mug into the livingroom and
flipped on the tv.  "Channel, please." 
	"Wait, that's my line.  I'm supposed to be Billy Crystal, right?" 
	"You can be Meg Ryan if you want." 
	"Hell, considering what I'm wearing, I'm dressed for the part," he
commented, and she nearly spat her sip of tea all over her couch. 
"Scully, there's something I haven't told you."  He tried to sound
serious, but she could hear him trying not to laugh. 
	"Uh-huh.  Mulder, if I had a dime for every time you've said that
to me..." 
	"Yeah, yeah, yeah.   Okay.  Channel 8?" 
	"Okay."  She stared at the screen.  "Do you have a really cheesy
looking kung-fu movie on the screen?" 
	"Hey, I like kung-fu movies," he said, sounding hurt. 
	"Next!" 
	"Jeez."  He grumbled.  "Channel 10." 
	"Aigh. Home shopping network."	 
	"Oh, look.  They're selling big fake diamonds in ugly settings. 
Channel 2?" 
	"Yay!" Scully exulted.  The Philadelphia Story. 
	"Ooohh, Kate," Mulder commented.  "Is this a keeper?" 
	"Yes." 
	"Are you sure?  We can go back to the big ugly diamonds if you
really want to." 
	"This is good."  Scully tucked her feet under the couch cushions
and settled in.  "Mulder," she said a few minutes later. 
	"Hmm?" 
	"Thanks." 
	"Anytime, Scully." 
					*END*